


Play Time

by Scribblesinink (Scribbler)



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:04:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribbler/pseuds/Scribblesinink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all his misgivings, Juice has reasons of his own not to regret taking Clay to Diosa International.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tanaqui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanaqui/gifts).



> For Tanaqui, who also performed beta duties.

“Actually, I’m Puerto Rican.”

“Stop talking, honey.” Carla tugged at Juice’s hand, pulling him after her.

“Okay.” Except keeping his mouth shut had never been Juice’s greatest strength. “Will he be charging me?” He meant Nero.

Carla gave him a sharp look. “He better not.” She opened one of the doors along the corridor and reached around the frame for the light switch. Instead of an overhead bulb, shaded wall lamps flicked on, casting a soft glow. “Or I’m gonna charge that… that  _woman_ for damages.”

“What wom—oh, Gemma?” Juice stumbled after Carla into the room. Glancing around, he was surprised at what he saw. A towel-covered massage table took up most of the space, with another, smaller chair for face-down massages further back. One wall was concealed behind a shimmering curtain while art hung from the others. Juice furrowed his brow as he examined the table; where was the bed? He’d thought—.

“Yeah, her.” Carla had locked the door one-handed and, with another jerk at his arm, swung him around, pushing him up against the wall. “You boys hangin’ ’round? Bad for business.” Her lips were warm on his neck as she nibbled at his skin with blunt teeth. She’d let go of his wrist, and her nails grazed over the lightning bolts inked into his skull. An unbidden whimper escaped Juice. “Might’s well get some fun outta it.” 

His breath hitched as Carla’s other hand cupped his dick; it twitched as she pressed it lightly through his jeans, blood flowing from his brain. “Fun. Right. ‘M all about the fun,” he managed to wring out. Maybe he’d read Carla’s intentions right after all. He grunted in disappointment when, with a last squeeze, she planted her palms flat against his chest and pushed away from him. She took a few steps backward, her gaze raking him up and down hungrily.

“What’s your name?”

“Uh…. Juice.”

She laughed quietly at that. “Wonderfully fitting.”

“Yeah,” he croaked. He pushed from the wall, taking a pace forward to where the massage table, a couple feet behind her, was beckoning him. 

Carla held up a hand. “Whoa, darlin’, not so fast.” Juice gave her a confused look. He’d thought she—. “Strip.”

“What?”

Her lips twitched in amusement. “You heard me.”

Yes, he had. It took his oxygen-starved brain a few seconds to catch up, but it made sense. “Yeah. Can’t have fun with my clothes on, can I?” He scrubbed a hand over his scalp, palm rasping on the short hairs of his mohawk. “I mean, I guess technically I—.”

“Juice?”

“Yeh?” He blinked.

“Less talking, honey, more action.”

Right.  _Strip_ . He shucked his cut, looking around for a safe place to put it. Carla offered to take it from him. “Careful with that,” he warned.

Again, she smiled. “Don’t worry, babe. I got ya.” Her eyes never leaving him, she draped the cut over a nearby chair. With an arch of her eyebrow, she indicated for him to continue. Juice grabbed the hem of his T-shirt, and quickly pulled it off over his head, letting it fall carelessly at his feet. He took another step forward, not missing the way Carla’s gaze wandered over his torso, lingering on his tattoos. But he didn’t want her gaze on him; he wanted her hands, and her mouth and her fuckin’—.

“The rest too.”

Juice stopped, the command breaking through his fantasies and taking him off guard.

Impatiently, Carla gestured. “Boots, jeans, boxers, whatever you got under there.” She licked her lips, a challenge in her eyes. “Don’t tell me: commando?”

Juice hiccuped a laugh. “Sorry, no.” He took another step toward her, impatient: this was taking longer than he’d expected.

“Nuh-uh.” For a second time, Carla’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Honey, you don’t get anywhere near these—.” She cupped her tits through her dress, pushing them together, deepening her already impressive cleavage. It was Juice’s turn to lick his lips, his mouth dry. He wanted—. 

Carla went on, derailing his thoughts again, and he struggled to pay attention. “—until you show me the goods.”

Huh. “A’ight.” He had nothing to be ashamed of. He started on the top button of his jeans, popping it before moving on to the next one. 

“Good boy.” Carla’s tone was approving and she sounded a little breathless. 

Juice undid a third button and toed off his boots, kicking them into a far corner without watching where they went. He released the final button and wiggled his jeans down his hips, suddenly glad he’d put on a fresh pair of boxers that morning. The club girls didn’t seem to care, but he had a feeling Carla wouldn’t have appreciated his ratty old ones.

Stepping out of his jeans, he bent to lower his boxers. His dick popped free, slapping against his belly. Carla sucked in a audible breath. “Damn, babe.”

Juice smirked, puffing up his chest. “100% Puerto Rican wood.” He ignored the niggling voice in the back of his mind that reminded him about the picture stuffed in a book at the bottom of the pile back home, the one with the black dude…. “Nothin’ white or trashy ’bout it.”

Carla huffed a laugh. “You don’t say.” She walked closer, running her hands lightly up his arms, across his shoulders, down over his pecs…. His stomach muscles fluttered involuntarily as her touch reached there. 

“Careful, I’m ticklish,” he cautioned with a choked laugh. She didn’t acknowledge him, simply continued her exploration, her fingers digging into his ass. Juice jerked his hips and slipped his arms around her waist, trying to pull her against him to get some friction going. He ducked his head, to kiss her, or maybe nuzzle that amazing cleavage, but she pushed him away. “Jesus,” he muttered.

“Get on the table.” The order brooked no argument.

Juice shot her a look. Rolling his eyes, he went to comply. She smacked his ass as he passed her by, and he squeaked, with shock and indignation. 

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, sunshine.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He thought it best to humor her; he wouldn’t put it past her to blueball him if he pissed her off. He crawled onto the table and waggled around carefully on his knees to face her. He sucked in a breath; while his back had been turned, she’d taken off her dress, revealing a black lace bra, barely holding in those tits, and a matching thong. “Holy crap.” It was his turn to swear under his breath. She might be ten or twenty years his senior, but those tight-skinned, barely legal chicks at Caracara had nothing on her.

She smirked. “Lay back.” Heart thudding against his ribs in anticipation, Juice did as he was ordered. A moment later, Carla’d crawled onto the table with him, balancing precariously. Juice wanted to reach up and yank off that damned bra, see if her tits were still as firm as they promised to be, but something in her gaze warned him to let her keep on calling the shots. It seemed like she read his intentions in his expression, because she gave a sharp nod before swinging a leg over his hips and settling her still thong-clad ass on his hips. Juice sighed, balls throbbing and cock straining. His hands twitched with the effort of keeping them at his side. She rolled her hips, a promise of things to come and Juice whimpered.

Reaching back, contorting her arms in that angle that always looked uncomfortable to Juice, she undid the clasp of her bra, pulled it down her arms and cast it aside. Her boobs tumbled free, inches from his face, and he went cross-eyed, trying to keep them in focus. They really were as pretty as he’d imagined, with pierced nipples surrounded by darker skin. The angle Carla was at, all he’d have to do was lift his head a fraction to—.

“Go ahead,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. 

Getting the permission he wanted at last, Juice reached up, latching on to a nipple with his mouth, the metal of the piercing cool against his tongue. He cupped the other tit, squeezing it gently with his hand. Carla rolled her hips against his. “Oh yeah, baby, that’s good.” Encouraged, Juice swirled his tongue around the nipple in his mouth, before grazing his teeth over it. Another husky moan was his reward. Even through the thong, her cunt was hot against his balls.

He reached for her hips, aiming to roll them over. “No.” Carla’s fingers clamped over his wrists. 

Juice flushed; he’d forgotten they weren’t on a bed. If he’d rolled them, they’d have fallen off.

She pulled his arms up, crossed his wrists above his head. “Wanna ride you,” she whispered. “Like a bike.”

Juice snorted a laugh. He liked the idea of her thinking of him as a hundred horsepower between her thighs. He grinned at her, relaxing his arms against the table’s cushion and she let go. “I live to serve.”

Carla smiled. “You’re a sweet kid.” She leaned over to lick at his tattoos, trailing her hands down his arms, long nails scraping delicate skin. Juice shivered. 

After a moment, she sat up, hands moving on, fingers pinching his nipples. “Ow,” Juice protested, though it didn’t really hurt.

Her hands left him as she lifted herself up briefly and slipped out of her thong. Juice swallowed; her cunt was bare as a baby’s, moisture slicking her skin. Goddamn.

From somewhere, she produced a condom, expertly sliding it out of its package and rolling it on to his throbbing cock. “Hurry up,” he mumbled, the touch of her fingers on him as she did so almost enough to undo him.

Luckily, she didn’t need to be told twice. Chucking the condom wrapper across her shoulder, she again raised up, one knee on either side of his hips and skillfully guided his dick into her. Juice sighed as she sank back down and took him in to the hilt. She sat motionless for a second, allowing both of them to adjust, and then began to move, the way her hips undulated creating the most delicious friction Juice could remember ever experiencing. The table’s joints squeaked softly.

“Gaah!” Juice crunched his eyes closed, holding his breath, mustering every bit of control he had not to shoot his load right then and there. After the worst of the spasm passed and he was relatively sure he’d manage to hold on until Carla was ready—he  _really_ didn’t wanna find out what she’d do to him if he failed her—he reopened his eyes. Her dark gaze glittered at him appreciatively. Unbidden, he unbent his arms from where she’d put them, wanting to touch her. She nodded once, giving him permission, and he grabbled at her tits where they swung appealingly before his eyes. He pinched her nipples with his fingers and a shudder ran through her.

As he went on teasing her nipples, she threw her head back, picking up the pace, and squeezed one hand between them to rub her clit. Juice concentrated on her tits, trying to ignore that his dick was pulsing again and that Carla’s cunt was twitching around it. 

“Aah!” The sound escaped her even as she stiffened, the walls of her pussy milking him. 

It was all Juice needed. 

“Jesus Christ!” he cried out, climaxing hard enough he saw stars. The table shook under him.

After a moment, he became aware of Carla sagged over him, breath rasping in and out, matching Juice’s gasp for stuttered gasp. His heart rate was only just slowing when she climbed off him, his soft, spent cock slipping out of her. 

Her mouth curled up, satisfied. “Wow.” She gave him an approving look.

Outside, in the main section of the building, doors were slamming and raised voices drifted in, though still too muted to make out any words. Carla reached for her thong and bra. “Up and ready, Juice. Play time’s over.”


End file.
